How Could I Forget?
by Sheryl Holmes
Summary: Rose Tyler is going crazy. Everything feels wrong & her life seems unreal. But when she finds a clue to suggest her dreams might be reality (or vice versa?), she enlists the help of an impatient, eccentric consulting detective. In the search for the truth, they come across two troubled brothers and their creepy companion in a trench-coat. SUPERWHOLOCK. (Rose/11, Destiel)
1. Prologue

_"Don't tell me you've never thought about it."_

_"About what?"_

_"Running away, Rose. Just…running."_

Rose turned the words over in her mind. Over and over again.

Of course she had. She lived a mundane life, with her mundane mother, her mundane job, her mundane…everything. The shades of pink that screamed from her walls and bedspread met her eyes like a dull gray and the London air never felt cool enough or hot enough, no matter what the weather forecast. It was all lukewarm.

She craved it. The thought of some magnificent no one taking her by the hand and whisking her away to the furthest corner of the universe. But he never came.

She slowly folded the blouses as Donna rambled. Ms. Noble was a few years older than Rose, but sometime she acted like she was twelve. Rose was beyond her years, so they made an interesting pair. Donna would come in to the store just to smile at Rose and talk about ridiculous things. She would usually buy something small like piece of jewelry just to make certain Rose wouldn't get fired for dilly-dallying on the job. But, in all honesty, Rose wouldn't really have minded.

It was all getting to be too much. There was no light at the end of the tunnel because she'd never entered the tunnel in the first place. And maybe that was supposed to be comforting—that she never had to stress because she'd never left the nest. But it wasn't. She wasn't going to college or working her way up the career ladder. She was just…there. Stagnant.

She felt like crying.

Rose turned her head up and grinned at Donna. "Nope! I like it where I am. Nowhere else I'd rather be!"

Donna huffed. "Bloody boring, you are." Rose turned her head back down to the blouses and smirked to herself, although she felt a tear at the inner corner of her eye. Donna could afford to live in her fantasies. Somehow, she was blissfully unaware of how much she _really _was missing. How much they both were missing…

There were days when she wondered if they weren't really dreams. Those nights when she'd wake up in a cold sweat, overwhelmed because in her sleep some blasted eccentric bastard in a blue suit with _really nice hair_ had pulled her from the crosshairs of a frightening otherworldly creature just in the nick of time. Those nights when she'd wake up, somehow expecting the walls to be blue or steel, not pink or purple. It all felt wrong, like something key had been torn from the core of her…like someone had tried to cut out something important and forgot to use the anesthesia.

And she'd get out of bed before the alarm went off. She'd make the tea and swallow it down before it cooled just to feel it burn her throat. She'd smile at her mother and quip about something ridiculous she'd heard on the telly or some new diet she wanted to try out. She'd take her shower and get dressed. She'd drive to work. And all the while, she'd let herself feel catatonic unless she knew somebody was watching.

Deep down, she could feel the emptiness. A hollowness so wide she sometimes expected to hear its echo when she thrummed her fingers against her chest. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three…four.

"Rose Tyler!"

Rose whipped around from where she was standing in the middle of Henrik's. She must've looked ridiculous, staring off into space, rolling her fingers against her chest.

"Yeah?" The coworker gave her some quick instructions, asked her to take the lottery money downstairs to the boss. _More mundane work._

She strode to the elevator. As she rode down, something akin to déjà vu sent a shiver down her spine—both in the frightening and exciting way.

The door "ding"-ed open and she stared out cautiously. She didn't want to leave the elevator. Not because of what she was afraid she'd find, but what she was afraid wouldn't be there. But what would (or wouldn't) be in the basement of Henrik's?

Rose carefully stepped out, looking left and right. _No sign of anything nefarious_, she joked to herself. It was the first honestly snarky thought she'd had in a long while.

Taking quick steps towards her boss's door, she stopped midway and looked on either side of her. _Mannequins._ She wrinkled her brow. _Yeah, I work in a Henrik's. Of course there are bloody mannequins_. For some reason, it didn't sit right with her. She poked one. No response. _Why should there be? A mannequin is inanimate, you git!_ Rose smiled to herself. Just like her to argue with her own mind.

Turning away, she walked to her boss's door and knocked.

_"Run."_

Rose threw the covers off and heaved for breath. This time, she swore she could feel his hand. Smell the leather of his jacket. See the blue of his eyes. She hardly ever dreamt of this man; it was usually the one in the pinstriped suit. But tonight the clarity of the dream, the vividness made her wonder if she'd been dreaming before or was dreaming now…the world she awoke to felt too gray to be life, too blurred to be reality.

And she was right. It wasn't.


	2. Sociopaths and Shop Girls

**Alrighty. So, this is my second fanfiction ever. The first one didn't work out so I'm starting afresh. I really want to get it right and I feel like the thing I need to work on is correctly adhering to a character's personality. So, if I ever misrepresent a character, I beg of you: LET ME KNOW. I take criticism (or any other form of feedback) well. If you read it, please review. I'll love you bunches! **

**~M.**

* * *

_i_

"I know a body!"

"I don't care who you know, Donna, I don't want to go out."

Donna glared at her over the table. Rose nibbled at her chips and did her best to make it obvious. She had no intention whatsoever of dating _anyone_. She was in a long-term relationship with two imaginary men and a third "body" would complicate things.

"But you'll _love _him! He's handsome." She raised her eyebrows in the dingy tea shop. The lighting was colored amber and it was evening, so everything appeared as dim as it felt. Rose rolled her eyes at her friend.

"Well, he's also older and we both know men your own age don't work for you." Rose glared. Finally, in a last-ditch effort: "Let me tell you, if you get with this bloke, you'll be set for life! He's got a steady job, a level head…"

"Oh, yeah, what does he do? Does he work in your office?"

Donna made her signature snorting laugh. "Heavens, no! He's a doctor!" She was just about to go on a ramble about how wonderful it would be if Rose ended up with somebody respectable, but she stopped when she realized Rose was balking.

Rose's ears had perked up and she her eyebrows furrowed. Something about that sounded…nice.

"A…doctor?" Donna ran with it.

"I _knew _it!" her voice bellowed in the un-attractive way only Donna Noble could make sound lovable. "You're going to _adore_ him and you'll marry and—dammit, Rose you'd better as hell make me your maid of honor! You remember when you're off getting engaged that I was the one who put you two together!" Just like that, she was already talking about marriage. Rose didn't seem to mind for once; for some reason, just the thought of meeting a doctor sounded right and it perplexed her.

_ii_

Two weeks later, Rose Tyler was sitting at a table in a restaurant waiting for her mysterious doctor. Donna had given them each the other's mobile number, but it had taken several attempts to get an actual date. He kept cancelling, rescheduling, and even stood her up once. He apologized over the phone profusely and, for some reason, Rose kept giving him another chance. She understood he was a doctor, but it did seem odd that he could have that many emergencies with his patients in a two-week period. She was beginning to wonder if he was just trying to blow her off, but his contrite apologies and insistence upon rescheduling clearly disproved that theory.

Yet, she was beginning to question that conclusion. Again. He was already twenty minutes late and Rose was staring at the phone with a sort of resigned expectancy. _Any moment now_, she thought. _Unless this time he figured he'll just make it obvious he's not interested by completely breaking off communication. For all I know he's already put me on Call Reject_.

Just as she was standing up to leave, she saw a man with a cane in a _really_ unattractive beige jumper looking anxiously around the room, standing at the entrance. She squinted. Donna said he'd be wearing a god-awful jumper, but she never mentioned a cane. _Could be him_, she thought. She took a chance, raising her eyebrows as she smiled and waved at him.

He noticed and looked relieved. He limped forward with stiff steps across the room. As he got a few yards away from their table, he almost ran into a waitress. Turning back to Rose in his disorientation, he tripped over himself and spilled the wine glass on the table onto Rose's lap. She made a little noise and stood up. Cursing, he grabbed a napkin and offered it to her. She grabbed it a little too harshly and began to rub furiously at her borrowed red blouse (_Donna's going to kill me_).

"Agh! I'm so—damn, I'm so sorry, Rose, I…" She looked up at him. He stopped as their eyes made contact. "Uh…you _are_ Rose, right?"

She broke out into laughter and he began to chuckle with her. People around the room were beginning to stare a little, but the two lunatics didn't seem to care much. She snorted and covered her mouth with the napkin as her tongue poked out between her teeth.

"Ye—yeah. Rose Tyler. Glad to meet you," she forced out between laughter. She held out her hand and he took it, laughing along.

"John Watson. Same."

_iii_

And that was it—the beginning. A month or so later, they both discovered that Donna was right. He was nice, he was kind, he was patient, and he was mature. Unlike her last several boyfriends. And Rose decided that she truly liked him.

It wasn't like Rose to attach herself to anyone quickly, especially a man about ten years her senior. But she was okay with it because there was something between them. He had an understanding of her pain, even if they never talked about it. It was as if they both had loved dangerous people and the aftereffects left them reeling. She was glad they never talked about it, though, because she couldn't very well say, "It's the men in my dreams." Which was also a boon for John, since he couldn't very well tell the woman he was dating that his crazy roommate was the reason he always cancelled at the last minute or that he had sabotaged his last dozen relationships.

Rose didn't really mind when John would flake out and she never asked for specifics. She wasn't attached to John the way Donna might have liked her to; instead, he felt more like someone who gave value to her life rather than someone with the potential to become the center of it. She told Donna as often as possible to stop mentally designing her bride's maid gown; she wasn't that interested.

"Yet!" Donna would say. "Who knows? Maybe it's love! Oi! Now you owe me. Go find me an incredible bloke with a great job." As always, Rose would roll her eyes and laugh. It was silly because, frankly, she couldn't even imagine kissing John yet alone marrying him. There was no spark of romance, only the hint of a blooming friendship.

John, however, very much wanted this to work. Not necessarily because he was smitten. It was more because he was just plain tired. Sherlock had insulted, experimented, and deduced away practically every good woman in London. At this point, John cared enough about Rose to realize if he didn't tell her about the unique difficulties of being Sherlock Holmes' blogger it would only make matters worse. He determined that he had to warn her, arm her so to speak, or she would hate him later.

Rose's phone rang. **John Watson** lit up on her caller ID and she smiled despite herself. It was 6 in the morning and she hadn't slept at all last night. Fed-up with dreams of her leather-clad savior, she drank a pot of coffee in order to self-induce insomnia and spent all night reading classic novels and watching _Firefly _reruns. She felt like the walking dead when she picked up the phone, but did her best to sound perky.

"Hey. What's up?" Her voice came out in a dull monotone. She shrugged. _Definitely not perky, but at least I tried._

"I was wondering if you'd like to have dinner tonight." The army doctor didn't really know how to sound cordial; he always sounded as if he were giving orders. Rose chuckled.

"Yeah…um, that sounds nice. But you sound a little tense…is everything alright?" She heard hesitation over the line.

"I…I was hoping you could come over to my place for dinner."

"Oh…would Charlie—no. Sorry," she laughed. "I can't remember the name of your roommate—would he be okay with that?"

"Uh…yeah, actually, I was hoping you could meet _Sherlock_." They both laughed.

"I still can't believe anyone could name their child that unless it was out of malice, but okay. I'll come over."

John smiled as he hung up the phone.

"Hm. You must be serious about this one if you are _encouraging _her to meet me," a voice from behind him sighed. "So," Sherlock sat up on the couch. "Is she another teacher? Another one of Sarah's friends?" John twiddled his thumbs and didn't turn around to meet Sherlock's eye.

"She's…," he huffed momentarily then became instantly indignant. "She's a shop girl."

He could practically hear Sherlock's eyebrows shoot up. "A _shop girl?_ Really, John, I thought your expectations were a bit higher than that…"

John jumped up and strode to the kitchen for tea. He didn't want to have this conversation. He'd already gotten an earful from Harry.

"…but, given your propensity to overlook practicality in relationships…," Sherlock heard John snort from the other side of the room. _Nail on the head_, John quipped internally. Sherlock didn't finish his sentence.

_iv_

It was an overcast night. Clouds had greyed the sky all morning and afternoon. Now that it was dark, the smell of impending showers loomed. The wind was cold and penetrated through to Rose's bones. She huffed and clutched at her arms, watching her breath turn to fog in the freezing nighttime air. The sweater wasn't anywhere near thick enough.

"Hey, you cold?" she heard John ask behind her. A heavy jacket was laid over her shoulders and she turned to smile at him.

"Thanks, babe." She didn't know why she'd decided to give him a pet name and it didn't taste right on her tongue, but he seemed to like it. He threw his arm around her shoulders and drew her in close as they strolled along the sidewalk in the streetlight. They were walking to his apartment from the car; he'd parked a ways away in order to stretch out the time. He told her he wanted to get some air. In all honesty, he was just scared the most longsuffering woman he'd ever met would break it off the moment she set foot in 221B Baker Street. Her teeth chattered.

Rose lifted her foot as they reached the steps of the apartment, but John clutched her waist and pulled her back. She looked up a little confused. His face was the symbol of apologetic.

"Um…listen, I think there's something you should know…about Sherlock." A pause. "But…uh. I'm not really certain what it is." She chortled at the ridiculousness of the comment, but he looked at her deadly serious. The laughter faded.

"What—what's wrong with him? Is he like…a serial killer or something?" She couldn't help but giggle a little again, but his face silenced her a second time.

"Eh…no. Not exactly." Her eyes widened.

"What do you mean, 'Not _exactly_'?!"

"Well, I mean, not at all—but he's been accused of having…that sort of mindset."

"Murderous?"

"Sociopathic."

There was a long pause between the two. Clouds of mist floated in the air from their open lips. Sirens blared in the distance.

"Okay," she said, sounding a bit too determined. "Let's go meet the regent psycho." She pecked him on the lips and smiled before bounding up the stairs to look down at him expectantly. Slowly, a grin spread across his face and he limped up the stairs to open the door for her.

_v_

At dinner, Sherlock was fairly quiet. He barely made a sound when he met Rose, giving her a tight-lipped smile that looked so forced she wondered if he was planning how he would kill her in her sleep. She smiled back.

They sat at the tiny dining room table, John's chicken parmesan steaming from their plates. Their landlady, Mrs. Hudson, had been unable to make it and when Sherlock told John, his entire face went pale. Rose couldn't decide it that was because he wanted more people at the table to help even out Sherlock's strange demeanor or if he was afraid Sherlock had murdered Mrs. Hudson and stashed her body in the recycling bin out in the back.

"So, what do you do?" Rose asked, swallowing down the chicken a little too forcefully as these morbid fantasies raced through her mind.

His eyes met hers languidly. "I am…," he looked over to John and back to her. His face contorted into that creepy smile again. "I work in sales." Rose raised an eyebrow and shifted her eyes to John. He avoided looking at her. She could tell it was a lie—_a lie John told him to tell me_—but she wasn't about to point it out.

Sherlock emptied the last of the port into his glass. Desperate to do something distracting, she stood up.

"I'll go get the other bott—"

"NO!" John bolted out of his chair. She froze, staring at him like he was a lunatic. Realizing his mistake, he chuckled and glanced back and forth between her and Sherlock.

"I…I mean, why should you do that? You're the guest. I'll go get it." With that, he dashed out of the room towards the kitchen. She sat back down and stared after him.

Turning, her eyes met Sherlock's. He was just about to give her the creepy smile again, she could tell, so she raised her hand and held it in front of him. His eyebrows twitched.

"Don't. You. Dare. Give me that damn smirk. I swear, I'll never stop having nightmares." Then, he smiled. An actual smile.

"I don't think I could have faked it much longer anyway," he chuckled.

"Well, you were doing a piss-poor job of it, so don't even complain."

They looked at each other. This was exactly the sort of sincerity it seemed John had tried to preempt.

"Alright, so give it up." He raised his eyebrows in response, fingertips meeting at his chin.

"Give _what _up?"

"Don't play dumb with me," she jerked her thumb in the direction John had stumbled. "What's in the kitchen?"

"Human body parts," he answered much too quickly. Her mouth fell open. He grinned.

John came back into the room to be met with this scene. Rose's thumb frozen midair, mouth hanging open, and Sherlock looking far too smug for John's liking.

He rammed the bottle down on the table as harshly as he could without shattering the glass.

"Dammit, Sherlock, what did you do?! Deduce her darkest secrets? Psycho-analyze her life choices? What could you possibly dislike about _her!?_" His arms gestured wildly.

Sherlock's eyebrows rose into a curly mop of black hair. "Nothing. Actually, I rather like this one." John looked startled.

Rose narrowed her eyes at Sherlock. "I take it that's uncommon."

"Very."

"Flattered."

He smiled in response. Rose rolled her eyes and went back to eating. She didn't even care if he was telling the truth; surprisingly, having her fears mocked made her feel almost at ease. And, although she'd never admit it…she kind of liked him, too.


	3. Corners

**Two chapters in one day, whoop! **

**I feel like I need to warn ya'll that I absolutely DO NOT intend to make this fic about John and Rose falling in love. You'll see, but just bear with me, kay?**

**~O.**

_i_

Needless to say, John was forced to tell Rose the whole truth, from why he always cancelled at the last minute to why there indeed were numerous body parts stashed away in the fridge. She took the revelation so surprisingly well John couldn't decide if she was his soul mate or simply insane. Even more shocking, Sherlock took to her better than he'd seen him take to anyone besides himself or Mrs. Hudson. When Rose would drop by the flat to see John, Sherlock would actually engage her—well, alright, not really. He'd talk to her from the couch wearing nothing but a robe and boxers, discussing the details of some new case and insult her intelligence.

But, still. That was something.

As for Rose, she found his antics almost humorous. She'd leave the flat chuckling and go home with a grin on her face.

These two men had made her life so much more colorful. She almost was beginning to feel herself again; even her mother noticed, despite her aggravation at being in a relationship with a man much older than her. Though Rose would never say as much, it didn't really make a difference. She and John were…innocent. Oddly enough, there was no discussion of what the boundaries of their relationship were. John just seemed happy enough to have female company who wasn't running for the hills.

But life wasn't nearly as perfect as Rose might have liked it to be. She was still haunted, still disturbed. The nightmares were both comforting and disconcerting in nature because they would remind her of things she somehow was desperate to forget yet desperate to cling to. Men in pinstripes and leather, aliens and bloody fights, machines and supernovas. It was all too much. She'd wake up with a spinning head, trying to decide why she so terribly missed the color blue and craved bananas. Donna insisted she was pregnant (which was impossible and equally insulting). Rose simply didn't know how to get through the week sometimes. Sherlock and John were a distraction, but the bare _wrongness_ of everything around her couldn't be fully ignored; it chewed at her, scratched at her like a restless imp in her mind, an undying impulse. If she knew what the impulse was for, she'd have given in long ago to ease this discomfort, but for the life of her she had no clue what it was her subconscious was urging her to do.

One night, she decided to call John. _That's what you're supposed to do, right? Call your boyfriend?_ She had never done that with Mickey, but Mickey slept like a log so she wouldn't have gotten through in the middle of the night anyway.

The phone rang twice before she heard him pick up.

"Y…yes?" Groggy. Rose paused. She shouldn't have called.

"Um…sorry, I thought you might still be awake," _Right. Awake at 3AM. Totally. _"Go back to sleep."

"No, I wasn't sleeping. I just woke up a few minutes ago…nightmares, you know?"

She paused. "Yes, actually. Do you…want to talk about it?" She heard him chuckle.

"I'll trade you." In the darkness of her bedroom, she smiled. The streetlights through her window threw strange, sinister shadows across the carpet. She focused on them as she murmured into the phone.

"There is this man…in a brown suit. He is really excited all the time. And he basically drags me everywhere he goes…across the universe in some sort of machine. It's weird because sometimes I imagine it is really small and other times I remem—" she caught herself. "I dream of it as a big, metal room with weird columns coming down from the ceiling. And these _things_ happen and these _creatures_ chase us…and he almost always saves me just before I am about to die. But I still wake up with this sense of loss…like somehow I've been cheated out of something."

"Like, what?"

"I dunno…like I don't belong anywhere but in the crosshairs, I guess. It just feels…wrong." A sense of both relief and terror grasped at Rose when she realized that was the first time she'd voiced that feeling. "Your turn," she breathed, desperate not to linger on the thought.

John didn't say anything.

"John?" Still, silence. "…it's about Sherlock, isn't it?" She heard him sigh.

"There's a man in my dreams, too. But he's not the good kind. He's like…he has the same sort of brilliant insanity as Sherlock, but…I don't know. It is like he's missing the part of Sherlock that keeps him on the side of the angels." A sigh. "He's the devil. He's…I wish I could kill him. I don't hate, Rose…but I hate this man. And he doesn't even exist."

"What did he do?"

"He hurt Sherlock. I don't know how, but he did. And the dream—the same dream, always the same dream—always ends with Sherlock. Falling from the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital."

Rose gasped. "He…did the man push him?"

"No…," John swallowed heavily and his own voice fell to a deep, croaking whisper. "Sherlock jumped."

For several minutes, they sat on the line together quietly. The curtains on Rose's window trembled in the wind.

"You want to know something, John?"

"Hm?"

"In my dreams, I'm scared."

"Well, that's to be expected, isn't it?"

"No, John. It should be the monsters that scare me or the threat of dying in an inferno or even the shear confusion of the situation…but it isn't. In these dreams, I fear _waking up_. And, John…I don't mean the 'let me stay here forever in this fantasy' sort of fear of waking up…" Her voice trembled and lowered to a choking whisper. "John…I'm genuinely terrified." As she said it, Rose swore she saw the shadows move.

Silence.

"Go to sleep, Rose. We both need to." Rose nodded.

"'Kay. Good night."

"Good night…oh, and Rose?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks." With that, the line went dead.

Rose sat on her bed, phone in hand, staring at the shadows, petrified without knowing why. And she sat like that without moving, only blinking, until the sun rose up over the neighboring buildings.

_ii_

"You didn't sleep last night." Rose met Sherlock's eyes as he peered over the microscope from the kitchen table. She looked down at her toes.

"No…not really." He looked back into the microscope.

"It bothers you, too."

"What does?"

"Mediocrity."

Rose swallowed and stared at the black curls covering his eyes as he leaned over the instrument. Then, she fled the flat, leaving Sherlock (for once) feeling a bit perplexed. John wasn't back yet, so why was she leaving? He hadn't said anything truly insulting and she typically took his observations in stride.

Yet she was jogging down Baker Street trying to flag down a cabbie to take her home, take her away, take her _anywhere_. She couldn't get a car to stop and couldn't hear the footsteps behind her as she hyperventilated.

"Why did that frighten you?" She jumped at the baritone voice over her shoulder and tripped into the street. Sherlock grabbed her by the waist and slung her into his arms just as a car swerved and honked its horn, barely skimming by the blonde.

Untangling herself from his arms, she breathed a thanks under her breath and took off in a quick walk down the street again, not even bothering to look Sherlock in the eye.

_iii_

Sherlock was right. It bothered her. But whenever she even thought about it, she felt as if she was being watched. And when someone noted it verbally…she could swear every pair of eyes was watching her.

She was beginning to feel more than a little crazy. Everything was becoming too much: The things in her dreams, the paranoia, the irrational fear of shadows, the dark…

She jogged to her home from the subway. Her mother wasn't back from a friend's house.

Quickly shedding her jacket, she let it fall on the floor of her bedroom and began to pace back and forth.

She let her head fall into her hands, blonde locks tangling in her fingers as she winced and tugged at her scalp. She had to remember something. There was something she was supposed to remember. Something she promised never to forget. Something. Something.

Something.

She stilled.

Something…beside her.

Carefully, she opened her eyes and stared straight ahead. At the window.

Then, her eye slowly slid to the left to look through the curtain of her blonde hair.

As it came to the edge of her peripheral vision, she bit back a gasp and sent her gaze back to the window. Her breathing became shallow. Paralyzed in place, she tried to make sense of what she had just seen.

A man. There was a man in her bedroom.

And somehow, she knew she wasn't supposed to know that. Thinking it through quickly, acting suddenly seemed to be the best strategy. So she did just that.

"Dammit! I was supposed to meet Donna ten minutes ago!" she exclaimed to herself (not really). Brilliant girl, she was. She jumped around the room, grabbing for her car keys, doing her best to squelch the panic and sheer terror gripping at her muscles.

Rushing outside, she jumped into the car and turned it on. Driving down the street toward the tea shop, knowing Donna wouldn't be there, she took the appropriate left turn, using the opportunity to surreptitiously slide her sight to the passenger seat. She could barely keep her grip on the steering wheel. The face of the man was still in peripheral vision, barely indiscernible, ever so blurry. And only an inch from her face.

It was lurking, seemingly inhuman, and very suspicious. It seemed to be sniffing at her. But it didn't seem to notice she had seen him. _It? Him? What was it?_ Rose had barely seen it at all. It was but a glimpse. But it was there. And it was watching her, far too close for comfort.

The drive to the tea shop was the most stressful trip of her life, as far as she could recall. She thought of a few dreams she'd had that felt nearly as suspenseful, but at least then she could count on her pinstriped or leather hero to jump in just when she needed him. Here…she was all alone.

She parked and walked into the building, pretending to be looking for Donna. She grunted and pulled out her mobile, quickly texting Donna she was sorry she'd stood her up. Donna immediately texted her back they hadn't intended to meet up until Monday. Rose furrowed her brow in false confusion.

"That's odd…I could have sworn…," she murmured. Then, she tucked the phone back into her jacket and sat at a booth. Ordered tea and biscuits. Breathed through her nose.

She didn't know why she had to and she couldn't fathom how she could succeed at it…but she knew she _absolutely must not let on that anything had changed_. Everything was the same. And she would continue with the act.

_vi_

The worst thing, really, about discovering she was being stalked by a semi-invisible shadow was that she had actually known all along. It wasn't the confirmation that something was hideously wrong that was freaking her out. It was the fact that, somehow, she'd _already known._ She knew she was being watched even when there was nothing to indicate it. Moreover, she was scared that this only scratched the surface. Before, she had believed she was insane. Most people might believe the revelation would cause one to believe she'd lost it. Instead, she felt vindicated. She no longer questioned her sanity. Now, it was the only thing she was sure of.

There was something more scratching at her mind and she wished she could just get to it…but she had no compass to direct her. What was she forgetting? She was forgetting _something_…

She discovered as time went on that the shadow man wasn't always there. When he was, she felt her hair stand on end, felt eyes watching her…it was all in the gut. Looking in the corners, she found he only came to watch her when she seemed to be unstable or worried. Or when anyone around her mentioned that something might be "wrong." So she avoided the word. Acted extra-perky. Told Donna she felt better since she met John and, no, she didn't feel depressed anymore.

Even the nightmares she would brush off. She'd wake up and sigh, pretending that they were merely nuisances. But, despite her efforts, the shadow man was always there when she'd wake up from a dream. On those rare nights when she wouldn't dream, he was never there. She began to wonder if perhaps he brought them, but the anger she sensed from him when she'd wake up led her to believe he didn't want her to have them. It made sense; the dreams, unlike anything else as of late, felt right. Real.

It was the fourth week since she discovered the man in peripheral vision and to keep up a life that had very quickly morphed into one of pretenses, she found herself at her boyfriend's house. It had become her weekend routine. Everything in her life, really, had become routine—from her visits to Donna to her date nights with John to how much time she spent pretending to read to visiting 221B Baker Street to how many times she knocked on its door.

She knocked four times. Tonight was a calmer night than others; the shadow man was gone. She hadn't dreamt last night and he didn't seem too keen on stalking her. She wanted it to stay that way: calm. However, unlike routine, rather than being greeted by John's cordial smile, it was Sherlock who answered the door.

"John's out. He apologizes but, for once, it was an _actual_ medical emergency." He seemed bored, as always, but also somewhat intrigued…and maybe a bit put off.

They both stood there looking at each other. _I should walk away, _she thought to herself. _Walk away, Rose, _she insisted. The moment dragged on. _Rose Tyler, don't you dare_, she begged herself. But, it was futile. She knew, if there was anyone who could help her, anyone who would believe her, it was Sherlock Holmes.

To Sherlock's surprise and annoyance, she pushed her way through.

"What—" he shut the door behind them.

Still in the hallway, she turned to look at him. "Sherlock Holmes, something is wrong. And before you say I'm crazy, you have to listen to me, and quickly—"

His bored, languid tone cut her off.

"I take it you have an invisible stalker, as well?"


	4. The Veil

**First of all, I don't know how most people typically respond to reviews, so I'm just going to do it in the Author's Note at the bottom from this point forward. **

**Secondly, I was really proud of the last chapter. I wrote it in like, two hours, but I felt like it had just enough freaky for my liking. Normally, it takes me a lot longer to write chapters (even though they are sort of short) because I am a perfectionist and I go over things way too many times before posting. Anyway, I just wanted to share my joy. :) Here is my next chapter. Sorry that it is so short, but it is the lead-in to a much longer chapter and I wanted this one to stand alone. **

**Feel free to PM and please R&R. Enjoy!**

**~R. **

* * *

Sherlock grabbed her by the arm and shoved her into the sitting room. Rose struggled out of his grasp, but the look on his face kept her from verbally protesting. He looked stressed. Anxious.

He let go of her and began to pace the floor erratically, mumbling things Rose couldn't quite catch. When his voice would raise a bit, she could hear bits and pieces. Something about dimensions, unexpected, not possible, not matching the pattern...

"Sherlock? Sherlock, _what are you talking about!?_"

He stopped in his tracks to look at her, eyes wild.

"I didn't think you'd have one."

"Have…have a…"

"Yes, _that_!" he huffed impatiently as he returned to pacing. "John had one as well, but I didn't think anyone else _could_ have one…"

"Wait, John, has one?" she stepped in front of him. He looked down at her.

"Yes, Rose, John has one. I discovered mine and later, I found there would be two in the room when John was with me."

She stared into his grey-blue eyes, searching for something. This was Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes wasn't fazed by _anything._

"Does he know?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"He hasn't discovered it yet and he's safer not knowing."

She paused. "Safer?"

"Don't tell me you think they're our guardian angels?" he snorted. "Of course they're malicious. You can feel it and despite my distrust for emotion, here that is the only thing you _can_ trust."

Rose was too overwhelmed to quite catch the comment. Sherlock continued his pacing, rambling as he did so.

"This changes things. You shouldn't have one. Only John and I."

"No one else?"

"No, of course no one else!" he snapped. "Haven't you checked? Oh, of course not. You may be the pick of the bad lot, but you're still an idiot."

"Sherlock!"

He ignored her. "This can't be good. It can only mean one thing."

"What's that?"

He stopped to look at her between narrowed eyes.

"It means you are real. Which I suspected to begin with, but having it confirmed…" Sherlock trailed off, paying little attention to Rose's incredulous look.

"What do you mean, I'm _real_? Of course I'm—"

"How old are you?" he asked abruptly.

"What?"

He pantomimed dramatically in his aggravation. "Rose, how _old_ are you?"

"…I'm 21, why?"

"And how long have you been 21?"

She couldn't help but laugh. "What do you mean, how long have I been twenty…" Her voice trailed off along with the laughter. _How long?_ She couldn't remember. She couldn't remember her 21st birthday, come to think of it. _Months, right? Must've been months…unless everyone forgot my 22__nd__ birthday... _How old had she been when she started to date John? That was something she was supposed to remember, wasn't it? _Remember…something…_

"Oh my god," she whispered. He looked at her meaningfully. It was beginning to sink in.

Sherlock took her roughly by the shoulders and thrust her towards the other side of the room.

"Look out the window, Rose. Tell me, what do you see?" His voice was hard, focused.

"I see…I see a few cars passing. Um, I see pedestrians…"

"No! No, Rose, you're smarter than that! You see, but you don't observe," he growled next to her ear, hands still gripping her shoulders. "What is on the street?!"

"…I, I don't know what you want me to…"

"The cars, Rose," his fingers were bruising her arms through her jacket. "What color are the cars?"

"Black."

"Which ones?"

There was a long, painful pause. "…all of them."

"Good, now," he left her to grab something off the shelf then he returned to stand behind her again. In his hand was a stop watch. He clicked it just as a car drove by.

"The second hand of the watch, Rose. Watch the time," he instructed.

Ten, twenty, thirty, forty…another car drove by.

"There! There, did you see it, Rose?" He pointed out the window with his free hand as he clicked the watch to stop the time.

Rose shook her head, uncomprehending. "Did I see what?"

"The car, Rose, dammit, watch the cars!" his voice reverberated in her ear.

"What am I looking for?"

_"Look, Rose._" His voice dropped until it barely registered at all. "I can't tell you; you have to see it for yourself." She nodded dumbly and looked back down at the watch in his hand.

Twenty, thirty, forty… Her eyes drifted back up to the street.

That was when she saw it. The driver. The license plate. The make and model. _It was all the same_.

"But…how could you go around the block in forty seconds?" her breath frosted the window.

"You can't."

"Why…why would someone drive by the house three times?"

"You wouldn't."

"…"

"Rose."

Silence.

"Rose."

"What?" she whispered.

"Look at me." His voice was uncharacteristically soft. She turned. "Rose, tell me, what about this room has changed since you met me?"

She looked around the room.

"…Nothing."

"Nothing?"

She shook her head. "No. The furniture is in the same place, the skull on the mantelpiece…" He shook his head back, black curls brushing along his forehead.

"Rose, I want you to take this watch." He took her hand and folded her fingers around the item. "Now, look at the face." She obeyed. "Tell it to stop ticking, Rose." Her face went up to look at him, now a yard's distance from her. He was trying to give her space for something, as if it weren't the watch that was ticking, but Rose herself.

"What? Why?" She couldn't understand the order.

"Just do it. Try," he implored.

She looked down and said simply, "Stop."

The second hand froze.

She looked up, suddenly incapable of breathing.

"Please, Rose, tell me you get it by now?" He was exasperated, yet there was the hint of fear in his eyes. Rose, however, was catatonic. She just stared back out at him, unmoving, unspeaking.

He grabbed her by the shoulders a second time and drew her to the mirror above the mantelpiece.

"Rose, what do you _see?_" It seemed as if any moment, he would lose control and roar at her to just _understand!_

But she didn't answer. He shook her, blonde strands of hair falling from the bun at the base of her neck, life barely returning to her eyes. She swallowed and blinked a few times.

"M—myself," the answer came quietly.

"Yes, and what else?"

"Nothing."

"…exactly."

She froze in place. And that was when it finally clicked.

She was in the mirror and so was the room. The wall behind her head, riddled with bullet holes, was clearly there, complete with ugly Victorian wallpaper. The doorway was there. The furniture was there.

Sherlock Holmes, however, was not.

"Sherlock…," she turned to look at him. "You're not a vampire, are you?" The query was laced with a sort of droll terror.

He stared at her sadly.

"No, Rose, I am not." He paused. "I am simply choosing not to be seen."

"How?"

"Once I realized this world wasn't real, I discovered I could manipulate it."

She tried to swallow again, tried to force down the bile threatening to sear its way up her throat, but discovered her entire system was too dry, too unexpectedly fatigued to swallow at all.

"But, if this isn't real…what are those shadows and why are they following us? And how can three people be having the same dream? The same…nightmare?"

Sherlock smiled grimly at the frightened woman in the mirror. "Oh, I never said it was a dream, Rose. You wake up from dreams."

The hairs on their necks rose.

"Sherlock…," she looked to her side into the mirror and saw something standing behind her.

"I know, Rose. They're here."

With that, they both looked to their sides and for the first time, they saw the shadow men full-on. They weren't hiding in the corners any longer; they stood before Rose and Sherlock undisguised—creatures that seemed to breathe out of darkness, not quite existing…like their forms were concave, not convex. As if their forms drew life and light in, not exuded them. As if they were the absence of substance. Non-things.

And they were seething.

* * *

**Author's Note: **

**_To MargauxUniverse:_**** THANK YOU! I am so glad it was actually scary because I was a little worried it would come off as being about as frightening as one of those grade-B horror films. :D And I think this next chapter will answer your question about how the Winchester boys will join the story. Thanks for reading; I'm flattered by your comment. Hearts!**


	5. The Shadow Men

**Sorry it is short, but I wanted to give you something to hold you off until Thursday, which is when I'll be able to write another installment. Until then, here is something semi-short and pretty sweet.**

**I recommend reading the first part of this chapter whilst listening to the Talking Heads' "Psycho Killer." It really sets the right feel.**

**~I.**

* * *

_i_

"Did you try the holy water?!"

"Of course I tried the holy water! It was the _first_ thing I tried, right along with silver!"

The two voices yelled through the darkness, the rustle of clothing, grappling, and some sort of snarl echoing in the black.

"Well, try it again!" the gruffer voice roared as a loud bang sounded, a flash of light illuminating the faces of two lumberjack-sized men, the taller of whom wielded a shotgun, and some sort of fanged phantom clinging to the upper corner of the small wooden room.

"The _hell_, Sam?!" said the gruff voice, now sounding as if it were in the midst of a problematic physical struggle.

"I thought we should try salt!" the other man yelled, cutting through the blinding obscurity. The sound of the phantom scratching as both men sparred to protect themselves sounded off the walls. _Good acoustics_, Dean mused.

"Well, how did you know you weren't going to—_agh!—_hit me?"

An uncomfortable silence accompanied the grunts and growls of the fight to ward off the creature.

"Sam?!"

"I aimed for where your voice wasn't coming from and just…fired…," the mumble was almost lost under the aggravated growls of Sam trying to hit the phantom. Which was, of course, futile. It was a _phantom_, after all. Sam felt his arm pass through the body.

"How the hell could you have heard where I was? This room is like a friggin' cavern!" The sound of something shredding.

"Holy crap, Dean! You just ripped my shirt…and cut my arm!"

"Oh, sorry…," Dean mimicked sarcastically, "I thought I could _hear where you were!_"

The guttural growl of the thing grew louder.

"CRAP!" they spoke in unison. Then, the sound of splintering wood.

"Cas?" Dean called hopefully.

Crashing. Huffing. "_Cas?!" _he called a second time.

Growls, some sort of clawing noise.

**_"CAS?!"_**

Something metal clanging against the floorboards.

A tiny stream of light flowed through a crack in the upper part of the wall, some dirt trickled through. The strange room was apparently underground.

The line of light fell on the thing, which now appeared to be three times in size—but now began to howl an entirely different kind of sound. The sound of pain.

The two men squinted, their eyes adjusting. They looked at each other and started laughing. The creature seemed stuck in space, a line of light drawn through its heart, red heat surrounding the darkness of its being.

Then more dirt fell. The light closed. And an earsplitting, inhuman screech of rage pierced the void of darkness. The axe was lost somewhere on the floor. _We are so screwed._

Darkness began to literally suffocate them, their throats constricting, feet lifting off the wooden ground. If it weren't already pitch-black, they would have begun to see spots before their eyes.

"C-c-…caaa….?!"

A bright light suddenly streamed through the room and the two beat-up brothers found themselves half-fallen on the ground in broad daylight next to an onyx 1967 Chevy Impala, a rather stoic man in a shoddy suit and stained tan trench-coat gripping their shoulders.

"Cas!" Dean croaked out, stumbling to his feet. "You're timing is—" he coughed loudly, his voice scratchy, "…_impeccable_."

Castiel cocked his head to one side and answered in monotone. "Thank you."

Sam fell against the wheel of Dean's Baby, the dust of the surrounding desert displacing into clouds around him. He put his hands on his throat, massaging his Adam's apple, and rolled his eyes. The angel, it seemed, would never comprehend sarcasm.

"At least…," the younger Winchester boy heaved for air, "…At least we know what hurts it, now."

"Yeah," (cough) "but only because we tried to claw our ways out of the frickin' trap we _laid for it!_"

Sam shrugged. "Light hurts. Darkness traps—" "…and empowers…" "—and it can only be seen when it wants to be…"

"Or touched," Castiel added.

Sam looked up, eyes filled with acerbic frustration. "Right. I almost forgot." Dean raised his eyebrows warily as he leaned against the back of his car.

"What do you mean, 'Or touched?' I frickin' hit that thing a dozen times!"

"And the other hundred?"

Dean scrambled off the side of the Impala.

"Are you telling me I only hit it because it _want _me to hit it?!"

Sam shook his head from his vantage point on the ground, his long hair sticking to the sweat on his forehead. "I'm thinking more like it has to materialize if it wants to attack physically. So when we were able to hit it…it was only because it was about to attack _us_."

The desert wind blew and the boys breath hitched as their lungs continued to refill.

"So…," Dean rolled his shoulders, trying to keep his balance. "You're telling me the only thing that can hurt it is light, but it can choose not to be seen during the day." Sam nodded. "It can manipulate darkness, but that's also the only time you can attack it." Sam dismally nodded again. "And if you actually want to _physically fend it off_—it has to be about to friggin' kill you?"

Castiel and Sam shared a look of sadness while Dean proceeded to grab a rock from the side of the road and hurl it at the wasteland surrounding them. The sand dunes absorbed the explicative.

_ii_

Rose and Sherlock were fleeing through the streets of London as fast as they could run. Sherlock mentioned between huffs that if Rose were more practiced in the area of thought control they might be capable of rendering themselves invisible to the creatures. However, it seemed Sherlock was just as incapable of doing such a thing, since he didn't disappear on a whim. He claimed that he merely didn't want to leave her alone (his blogger's girlfriend apparently held some value), but Rose suspected that was his ego talking. _Even in the midst of crisis, he's thinking of his reputation...git._

Rose was finding it somewhat difficult not to go crazy even as they were racing and sweating down the alleyways. She couldn't believe her exhaustion wasn't real. Her aching muscles were an illusion. This all was an illusion. Sherlock might even be a figment of her mind. She found herself staring as they stopped to hide behind a wall. He caught her look and rolled his eyes, replying caustically:

"Rose Tyler, have you ever heard of Rene Descartes?"

"I didn't finish secondar—"

"I think, therefore I am. But what if all I am is a thought?"

Flush against the cool of the bricks, she could feel coldness of the wall penetrate her sweater. His grey-blue eyes tore through her as the idea rattled her.

"You mean…why should this feel any different in the first place if we never know if the 'real' world is actually real at all?"

He nodded, eyebrow raised at her distinctly slow ability to grasp the concept.

She scowled. "Sherlock Holmes, you wipe that bloody look off your face before I slap it off! You're not so damn clever," she turned to look behind the wall as she stage-whispered.

He was genuinely shocked at the comment but didn't let it show. He grabbed her hand and pulled her away from the wall to continue running.

Although his comment would perhaps have disturbed any other individual, it gave her a feeling of understanding. She was lucky, knowing what reality _truly_ felt like—even if it was only through the memory of her dreams. She knew if she ever experienced the real world again, there would be no mistaking it. This world would seem but a shoddy, grey mist by comparison.

But the shadow men preoccupied her. She was running from _shadows_, creatures that lurked in the corners of eyesight, out of mind. Then she was suddenly stricken with fear at the thought of John.

"Sherlock!" she pulled at him and made him stop mid-stride. "What about J—!" His hand covered her mouth.

"Rose, do you understand the concept of a search engine?" He carefully lifted his hand from her mouth so she could breathe, clouds of fog escaping.

"Dammit, Sherlock, we don't have any time for riddles, don't you know he might be in danger?"

He shook his head at her. "Only if you mention him. Only if you think of him." She furrowed her brow.

"This is _their realm_, Rose. Haven't you put it together yet? Whenever you mention them, they come. When you are afraid of them, they come." He paused for affect, lowering his voice even deeper than his quiet, reverberating baritone. "Think of what would happen if you thought of someone they could use as a weapon against you—better yet, _don't _think of it at all!" he remarked acidly, glaring down at her. The night was moistly chilly, the worst kind, and it bit at her eyes but she refused to blink. She wouldn't let any man stare her down.

"How am I supposed to _not think?_ If we keep running, I can't help but think of _what_ we're running from!"

Sherlock looked pensive for a moment.

"You're right." Rose was shocked. _I am?_ "We need to distract you."

With that, Sherlock Holmes kissed her.

Not romantically, mind you; it was the kind of quick but inappropriate kiss that was deserving of a very hard slap on the cheek—which Rose promptly delivered to his razor-sharp cheekbone.

Sherlock held his face. He wouldn't have said so aloud, but her slap was about as strong as John's left hook—and John was left-handed. _Incredible manufactured physical strength in a realm of the mind. She must have an incredibly large reservoir of mental power… _He readjusted his jaw. _Broken? No, almost dislocated. Wouldn't matter, though, would it? Dying would matter. Die in the mind, die in the body. Broken bones would be of no consequence._

"Sherlock?" He looked up. She had that look on her face that said, _Are you listening to me? I've been calling your name for ten minutes._

"Hm, yes?"

"How do we get out of here?" He looked at her for a moment.

"Ah, yes!" She looked hopeful, relieved. He grinned back and rubbed his hands together. "I've no idea, but I'm itching to figure it out!"

* * *

**So…I was wary about putting the kiss in, but I couldn't help myself. The thing is, I feel like their relationship would be really familial in nature, which is what I kind of wanted to prove by showing how the kiss ****_totally didn't work_**** between them. **

**As for basically feeding you (the readers) the conclusions each individual drew about the Shadow Men/Phantoms, I kind of felt bad about it. A lot of authors spell everything out and, although I didn't want to do that, I felt like it would be even more confusing to not summarize since I'd already basically employed a really confusing method of introducing the Winchester boys. So, I tried to make it as suggestive as possible without making you feel like I was spoon-feeding the content to you.**

**At any rate…I want to thank all the people who reviewed. I really flattered and I feel really inspired to continue this fic. I won't stop now, promise. Thanks to all those who favorited and followed! Abrazos!**


	6. Something

**_Don't kill me. I know I said I'd post "on Thursday," what, like three weeks ago? Well, then life attacked and the yuletide followed. And yes, I know this is the SHORTEST CHAPTER EVER. But! It is a chapter signaling my return. I thought the title was rather fitting. It isn't much but it is Something. So, without further ado…!_**

**_~A_**

* * *

_i_

Was it supposed to be love? Could love prevail even through the most difficult of trials?

Through crossing universes and temporal loops?

Through morphing faces and changed suits?

Did the essence remain the same even when the man himself changed?

These were the questions the Doctor often asked himself. Looking out at the stars, he would wonder if one day he'd awaken from an almost-death…not to defend this universe, but suddenly with the desire to destroy it, as an old friend had himself decided so long ago.

But this wasn't the question that haunted him most. He wondered often, vaguely, in his most nightmarish of hypotheticals…if one day he'd become a man who no longer loved Rose Tyler.

Through two regenerations, he'd retained that adoration. Through many companions he sought both to cling to and rid himself of the plague that was his love for that girl. Yet, whether he yearned to keep it or yearned to be free of its yoke, the love remained. And, after the confusion that followed her absence, he realized that feeling was a thing he needed desperately. Her memory was a necessity, something that made him who he was, a piece of him he couldn't afford to lose. She fixed whatever part of him had been broken by war, restored what was injured, and rebuilt what he believed even Time itself could not repair. And he couldn't lose that. He couldn't. But, in a few more years, a few more regenerations…a few more men from now…

Would he?

The Doctor winced, his grip tightening on the door of the TARDIS. What was the point in opening his eyes? What was the beauty of the cosmos compared to his pink-and-yellow human?

He breathed through his nose. It was days like this when he felt lost, days when he felt broken…these were the days when he thought of her.

Then, the TARDIS screamed.

Not literally, mind you, but in the Doctor's head. Something was wrong, she told him. Something down the corridors of his borrowed blue sentient ship.

The Doctor slammed the front door shut and took off running down the hall in a frenzy.

"I'm coming, Sexy! No one will hurt you," he whispered aloud, his hand on the wall as he turned the corner of the hallway.

_ii_

There were shadows everywhere. Even the light seemed to be darkness, breeding with itself, thriving and pulsating in the air. Growing like a grotesque balloon.

Everywhere, liquor poured on the carpets, stained wine red and whiskey brown. Spinning. The room has no gravity. The light has no focus. No. It has many foci. Too many. Twelve foci. Fifteen? How could one count the points of balance…? Ten shades of grey and the colors fade to lights. Blurred outlines of the furniture break down into layered images.

_Am I drunk?_ she asks herself. But she doesn't feel tipsy, doesn't taste alcohol. Could it be the liquor spilled was from her glass? _Wait…is that liquor?_ She floats forward, doesn't walk—can't feel the ground beneath her feet. _No. Not liquor. It doesn't smell like alcohol. It smells more like metal._ Metal. Metal. _Copper._

_Blood._

A scream echoed through the corridors. Amy grasped for her throat and struggled to breathe. She closed her eyes and let her head hit the grating on the floor. She felt extremely disoriented as she tried to gather her sense of place. Her arms felt too heavy, legs sprawled messily. Her head hurt, her limbs hurt, her skin hurt. _On the upside, I'm not in a blood-stained room._

"Thank God," she whispered. _It was only a dream._

Then her eyes flew open. "Am I still dreaming?" her Scottish brogue thickly asked, echoing again off the metal walls that looked _much too familiar_.

"AMY?!"

She threw her head back only to be met with the upside-down image of a bewildered man in an oxford, trousers, suspenders, and a…bowtie.

Amy scrambled to her feet. At first she only stood, blank-faced, desperately hoping her imaginary friend wasn't about to dematerialize as he had in so many of her other dreams. When it seemed, however, that he wasn't going anywhere (and was quite paralyzed with confusion himself), she launched herself at him, footsteps clanging like a dull bell on the grating of the TARDIS, throwing her arms around his bony shoulders as tears streamed down her face.

"Doctor! I thought I'd never see you again!" She pulled back to look at him, grinning, tearstains on her ruddy, freckled cheeks. "How," she choked momentarily, "how did you do it?" She leaned forward and smacked her lips on his cheek. Uncharacteristically, the Doctor only stared straight ahead, baffled.

"Amy, I didn't do anything."

"What?" She lifted her head from his shoulder.

"I didn't bring you here."

Amy felt her throat go dry.

"Doctor…where…where's Rory?"

After a moment of distressed pause, a groan was heard down the hall.

* * *

**_THANK YOU to whomever the Guest was who made a particularly Whovian compliment. And again to MargauxUniverse (your comments are really quite helpful.) Thanks also to everyone else who reviewed; I love you all. :D_**


	7. As Time Goes By

**I'm not even going to feign humility with this one. I am so proud of this chapter I could scream.**

**'Kay. My moment of pride is over.**

**Thanks for reading! Please review!**

**~R.**

* * *

_i_

"Don't mention my name and I won't call you by yours. We mustn't alert them to our location," Sherlock had said. He had looked Rose in the eyes and told her they had to be calm while he came up with a plan.

What safe place was there, though? They were in some nightmarish pseudo-reality, they had lost John, and Rose didn't know if her own mother was safe or even real. They didn't have a place to run to, but they couldn't stop. So they just kept running. For hours. They had no way of knowing what the Shadow Men could do them, but what could it be but horrific? They had discovered the secret they must never know. Sherlock and Rose had revealed the one fact they _must not _know. They didn't have much information on the Shadow Men, but one thing was certain: They wanted to hide the truth. How would they punish the humans who had uncovered it?

Rose and Sherlock went back and forth between walking and running, but it was futile and they knew it. How could they hide? They were in a false reality.

Sherlock, in his mind, knew there was one way of getting out. But if he was wrong about the essence of the world, death would actually kill them, not awaken them to the true reality. At any rate, they had no method of murder or suicide. Unless they could exhaust themselves to death.

Then the stars went out. And the moon. It was almost pitch-black, but there was just enough light to fumble through the streets. There were no more cars. No more windows or doors on the buildings.

The roads kept changing, the alleyways kept winding, as if someone were readjusting them to trap the two in a cul-de-sac. Sherlock would grab her hand and pull her away just as the walls began to close in on them, as a brick wall suddenly began to fold like a hinged door. They were creeping through a devious, sentient labyrinth in the dark, clinging to each other's hand in terror.

An animalistic scream was heard from behind them.

They broke out into a run—the kind of run that leaves you out of breath, heart pounding in your ears, heat rising through your body like a fire, lungs burning, throat dry as a desert, eyes unseeing in the blur.

Rose turned to look behind her, tripped, lost her footing and Sherlock's hand.

She shouted out something, turned to find him, but he was gone. He wouldn't have left her, but there was nothing but the veil of night everywhere she turned.

She felt pressure on her waist. Looking down, she saw a tentacle of black snake around her body, winding its way over her legs and arms. It worked its way over every inch of her until it found her face. Her chest constricted. It was suffocating her.

It slithered over her forehead and forced down her tongue, slid into her mouth as she struggled to inhale a final breath.

_ii_

And suddenly it was morning. Rose didn't know where Sherlock had been before, but now he was standing yards away…on a ledge.

_This isn't right_, she said to herself. Sherlock seemed distraught, if his profile was anything to go by. That face, usually so schooled and impassive, was now drawn out: jaw loose, eyes drooping, skin haggard as if he'd aged a decade. Rose looked over the edge of the building, way down to the street below. _This is wrong. Why are we here? _Rose looked up and back again from his face to the surrounding buildings. _Where am I? How did I get here?_

It took her a moment to remember where she was and how. What felt like only moments ago they had been running from the Shadow Men…_Is this reality, then?_

No. She knew it wasn't. Everything still felt…wrong.

But Sherlock was fine. That was all that counted. She turned down to look at the streets again. _How did we get up here?_

_It must be the shadow men_, she thought. "Sherlock, you were right. They can change the surroundings—"

"Goodbye, John."

Rose's eyes flew back to the man on the ledge. _Goodbye?_ _John?_ That's when she noticed the mobile in his hand, being thrown now to the side, and John a block down the street staring up at the figure in the black trench-coat.

And that's when it hit her.

The dream. John's dream was coming true.

"Sherlock," she said, inching towards him. "Sherlock, don't be daft," she looked over the edge warily, then back up to him, "Get down from there." Sherlock didn't seem to hear her. She took a step forward, as if to reason with him—but it was too late.

He was falling.

Time slowed to a crawl. Frame-by-frame, she saw his arms spread like bird, his coat billowing in the cold wind like a tail poised to steer him.

Down.

His body stiffly broke the invisible barrier dividing him from gravity's pull—a lean forward by inches and a force dragging him away.

Down.

Time was grinding so slow but the moment was gone too fast.

Rose's arm reached out to grasp his coat.

Down.

She felt the fabric as it slipped past her fingertips.

The moment was gone. Sherlock's last moment. Her last moment with him…and he didn't even say goodbye. Not to her. He forgot about her.

Down.

She lurched forward, barely caught herself…barely found the will not to follow him

Down.

"SHERLOCK!"

Rose screamed out, but a man's voice bounced off the walls below in unison. John's voice hit Rose's body as if she were being stoned.

She tore her eyes away to see John being thrown over by a bicyclist, didn't see Sherlock's body crunch in a bloody, bony mess on the concrete, bending in all the wrong ways like a clay figurine. She refused to see it.

It was too much.

This was too much.

She had to do something…

But what could she do?

Her body swiveled like an unbalanced gyroscope from the roof's ledge. The world was spinning. She could hear rushing waters and looked everywhere for their source, unaware that it was the sound of blood in her ears.

She tumbled dizzily, vertigo causing her to fall backwards over her own feet.

Over a body.

A bloody body with lifeless eyes now fixed on the sky.

A peaceful cloud-gazer enraptured with his moment of aeromancy—a unnatural grin stuck on his gaping mouth, filled like a goblet of wine with his brain's juices, slowly spilling out of the back of his head on the concrete.

Sherlock was dead in the street.

John was injured and alone.

A man was dead in front on her on the roof.

Rose felt the scream rising, but it never passed her throat.

Instead, she howled.

_iii_

John was having tea with Donna. He needed to talk to her about a few things and, frankly, all his other friends (all two of them) seemed to have suddenly turned into moving statues. They no longer held the same personality, no longer loosened their shoulders or made the same leisurely comments. Sherlock thought John couldn't tell. Why should he be able to? He was an idiot, like the rest of mankind.

But John did see. John saw things through eyes that had fixated themselves on Sherlock. From the way he tied his shoes to the way he fixed his coffee to how long he held a smirk to what pieces he played on his violin could alert John to Sherlock's mood or innermost thought. He didn't need to deduce anything; his mind recorded and categorized of its own accord.

And Rose? There was something wrong there that couldn't be pinpointed. She smiled the same tongue-in-teeth grin as always, but her eyes seemed too glossless.

The whole attitude that began to prevail around his two closest companions gave John the feeling of living in a police state. He almost began to wonder if everyone knew a secret he didn't. Being watched, though, didn't bother Sherlock. It excited him. He either broke all of Mycroft's videos hidden in the walls or played sick games of human chess with his arch-nemeses. But, under no circumstances did Sherlock Holmes _ever feel fear._

It was odd, that feeling of hidden terror that John couldn't track down. It seemed to him it had been there from the beginning of time, but time seemed so uneven as of late.

So, here he was, sitting with a cuppa' across from Donna Noble in their typical tea shop. He didn't know what to say or how to say it, but it was all wrong. She was yapping away about the most recent gossip in her circle of frenemies and, deep in his mind, he was trying to formulate the correct words to describe how _bloody scared out of his skin_ he was.

John opened his mouth to speak.

_iv_

"RORY!" a shout came down the hall, trailed by a long-legged ginger.

She came to a dead stop as she saw the man lying on the floor of the TARDIS. A gangling oddity of a man with a too-long-too-short mess of hair flew from behind her and her sudden brake caused them both to tumble forward gracelessly.

The man caught her by the waist, trying to catch his breath.

"That's…" He blew his cheeks into a balloon and let the air out in long sigh, causing the girl's hair to fray like fire. Their eyes were wide with confusion.

_v_

John was having tea with Donna…and then he just _wasn't_.

The bizarre sensation of every nerve in his body being gripped by some force overtook him. He could see Donna's mouth moving, but her voice was gone. Abruptly, his vision was shut off like a switch being flipped.

And then he was heaving for breath in a _really dark_ room that was way too warm for his liking. He felt his arms lifting and struggling against restraints. He panicked. His legs were bound, too. His eyes tried to adjust to the darkness to see his surroundings but just as he began to make out machinery against the walls of the small room, he felt the sensation again.

Golden light. Everywhere golden light. And—

_vi_

"That's not Rory," the Doctor said, voice a monotone.

Instead, a man in a really ugly beige jumper was coughing on the floor of the TARDIS.

Beside him sat a curly-haired man in a dark trench-coat.

* * *

**I have several people to address. First of all, there is one Guest who said some of the most incredible things anyone has ever said about my writing. To you: THANK YOU SO MUCH. **

**Thanks a million to Tabby, the Queen of Confusion, Daniel Wesley Rydell, MargauxUniverse, and Jefferson Author. (JA: I will check out your stuff, but as a preliminary note, your pen name rocks. White Rabbit ftw!)**

**Thanks also to everyone who favorited and followed. I am so glad you like the story. :)**

**Much love. You guys are awesome. :)**


	8. Two Doctors, the Ginger, & the Detective

**Hiya! I wrote this chapter pretty quickly, by my own standards. And, it is one of my longer creations. :) It mostly sets things up for the next events, which will be fairly gnarly. Suspense. It is intriguing suspense, though, so…Enjoy!**

**~T.**

_i_

"Bobby!" The rough knuckles rapped for a fourth time on the wooden door. "Bobby Singer!"

The door swung open to reveal the barrel of a 12-gauge shotgun. Dean scoffed and brushed the thing out of his face with a shrug. His bowed legs side-stepped the gruff older man and was followed single-file by Castiel and Sam. Bobby looked after them. Their clothes were dirty and torn and their faces showed they hadn't slept in days. Bobby snorted before slamming the door shut on the cool winter morning.

In the messy study, furnished with old chairs, bookshelves, and a wooden desk that hadn't been varnished in decades, the brothers took seats. The angel remained standing, unaware of social conventions. Not that anyone noticed or cared anymore. Castiel certainly wasn't normal and the people he spent his time with seemed to get that.

Bobby joined them after putting his gun away and gracelessly fell into his seat at the desk. He pushed a pile of ancient-looking papers onto the floor and poured himself a glass of scotch in its wake.

After a rather large swig and an awkwardly silent couple of minutes: "I take it your hair-brained scheme bit you in the bee-hind?"

Sam looked ashamed, Dean looked annoyed, and Castiel—well, Castiel didn't have many facial expressions beyond confused or blank-faced. So he went with blank-faced.

"We had it…," Dean began. Bobby raised his eyebrows.

"Lemme' guess—You had it…and then ya' didn't?"

Dean growled, stood up and walked to the fridge. Pulling out a beer, he popped the top on the counter and downed half the bottle, doing his best not to show the pain in his face. His ribs were pretty badly bruised, if not broken.

"What is this, the third botched trap in a week? How many'a these things do you idjits think you can _almost gank_ before you get urselves killed?"

The elder Winchester slammed the fridge door shut and turned to face Bobby.

"Well, it isn't like there's a known method to killing these things. Unless there is and you aren't doing your job!"

"Hey!" Bobby snarled. "Watch yourself, boy, I have been through every damn book in this room and called every source I know—at least every source that hasn't been killed by one of the bastards," he added, looking down into his glass tiredly.

Dean sighed apologetically, shoulders hunching. He showed a little weakness as he leaned against the doorframe between the study and kitchen, wincing at the pain in his side. Sam gave him a sympathetic look before turning to Bobby.

"Do you have any idea what it is? Is there any lore even mentioning…"

"Nothing." Bobby took another swig. "It is like they never existed…then _poof!_" he gestured with his free hand. "Just like that, they're everywhere."

"And," Sam turned to look at Castiel. "You're sure you've never seen them, either?"

"As I told you before, they are not of this world."

Dean pushed himself off the wall at an almost masochistic speed, pain rippling through his bones. "Yeah, and remind me what the hell that means, again?" he bit out.

"I'm…not sure," the angel admitted, looking down, angered by his own inability to be of use. "They don't seem to be anything I've ever encountered in heaven or earth…or hell."

"Rules out demons," Bobby frowned, letting the amber liquid slide around the inner walls of the glass…

The telephone rang. Dean was slumbering on the couch subconsciously holding his side and Sam had left to get something from the Impala. Knowing Castiel had no way of properly answering a phone (or lying to a federal agent), Bobby grimaced and stood up slowly. The phone rang again. And again.

"I'm a'comin!" Cas furrowed his eyebrows.

"A telephone is inanimate. It cannot hear you." Bobby gave Cas one single I-don't-give-a-rat's-behind look before reaching for the receiver, but not before it rang a final time.

"Hello?" There was a murmur over the line. "Who's askin'?" Murmur. Bobby hummed. "Alright. What can I do ya' for?" A pause. "Yeah. What's it to ya'?" Another pause. "Is that so? What, then?" Whatever the reply was, Bobby found it hilarious. "Yeah, I think you mean fairies and that ain't what these—" His chuckle faded. "You're serious? You mean legit'mat?" He blew out his air. "Well…I'll be a blue-nosed gopher…"

Outside, Sam was massaging his shoulder where he could nurse his wounds without fear of masculine judgment. Then, he heard Bobby's shout.

"SAM WINCHESTER, GET YOUR ASS IN HERE!"

He rushed through the door.

"What?"

Dean looked grimly amused. He tipped his head in Bobby's direction, who, it seemed, was scouring his books.

"Wrong one!" he growled, throwing it aside in frustration.

Sam wrinkled his forehead.

"Bobby knows what we're hunting." Sam's face cleared from a look of confusion into one of excitement.

"What?" Sam asked for the second time.

Bobby looked up from a book, mouth crooked in disdain.

"Aliens."

_ii_

John could swear he'd lost a layer of flesh in his throat by the time he was done retching the loose bile out of his system. His head was lazily drooping over a blue ceramic toilet in a room which (he was told by the man in the bowtie) sanitized itself.

On either side of him knelt the ginger and the nerd. They had followed John in, supposedly to assist him in his shock. Instead, they were arguing over his head while he clung to sides of the ceramic seat—which oddly didn't have any of the normal parts to it and would suck down the vomit without any of the normal water flushing. John couldn't really think about it much. He also didn't understand the argument over his head. The ginger, apparently named "Amy," was accusing the nerdy fellow of leaving her husband, "Rory," somewhere. She was also pissed because she believed he'd changed her clothing.

"I was living in the 1950's, Doctor, how the hell am I suddenly in a mini-skirt again!?"

The medical man wouldn't own up to it. He kept saying he was just as baffled and John almost believed him. It seemed Amy didn't really doubt the doctor, either, since she finally just sighed in response.

"I know. I'm just angry. How could this not be _you?_ Who else would have teleported me to the TARDIS and changed my wardrobe?"

The word forced a fresh batch of up-chuck into John's throat. _TELEPORT? _ _Then again_, he realized, _what else could it have been that brought me here? I was drinking tea with Donna…then…_

He made a few painful noises while Amy rubbed his back, shushing him with a Scottish accent.

All the while, Sherlock had been wandering the corridors of the TARDIS.

He was sharp enough to realize there was something in his head…but he couldn't necessarily get it out and what good would that have done him? If there was something/someone in his head, he could use it just as well as it could use him.

"Alright, then. Who are you?" he spoke aloud.

When the ship hummed, his forehead twitched. "Wait…no…no, no, no…," he murmured, spinning in a circle whilst looking at every angle of the ship. Looking up, he asked again, "You?"

The ship hummed again.

"Sir?"

Sherlock spun 'round to face the oddly-dressed man. His eyes dragged over his gangling frame, seeing the way he held himself, the way he was dressed, all of it.

_Acts helpless and giddy in order to avoid the fact that he is depressed and guilty. Guilty of what? Something large. The way he acts is far too childish for it to have been something small. No, it is many things. He is guilty of many things. Terrible things. But he is too righteous for it to have been unnecessary. He feigns genteel behavior because he wants to be the man he was before he did whatever it was he did._

_What did he do?_

_What was it?_

_Clothing: Bowtie is not originally his. Too old to have been his. Given? No, he doesn't treat it like a gift. Not an heirloom, either. He is proud of it but not because of where it came from. It is likely stolen._

_The sentient building…the noises. It is a ship of some sort. His ship. You can see the ownership. He is about to give me a tour._

_But something's not right about him._

Sherlock tilted his head at the man and walked forward, coming within inches of his face. The taller man leaned down and examined the other's eyes. The bow-tied man leaned backward, perplexed by Sherlock's behavior.

_Those are not the eyes of a thirty-something-year-old man._

_Older than he appears._

_Guilty of something._

_Doesn't understand social conventions, evidently, by his dress. Or, is it that social conventions change depending on where he goes?_

_Sentient ship._

_His estranged friend spoke of the 1950s as if she lived there moments ago. Her mother couldn't have lived in the 1950; that girl is not yet thirty-five._

_Time traveler._

_Time traveler…that doesn't explain the age issue. Perhaps he doesn't age on the ship?_

_No. That's not right. Age must exist if sickness exists and John has proven that._

_That must only leave…_

"You are an alien and this is your time-traveling ship."

The man stood still a moment before his face broke into a grin. He held out his hand within the few inches of space Sherlock had left between them.

"I'm the Doctor. You must be Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock looked shocked.

"How—"

"You're not the only one who can deduce." The Doctor just kept on smiling, perhaps a bit smugly.

Sherlock didn't take his hand. "Either that or your telepathic ship gave you my name."

The Doctor looked affronted. "That would be cheating!"

After a moment of pause: "Doctor. Doctor of what?"

"Not the doctor of anything," the Doctor shrugged happily. "Just 'the Doctor'!"

The darker-haired man was not amused nor did he appear impressed.

"Doctor who, then?"

The Doctor chuckled like it was an inside joke. "Like I said before. Just, 'the Doctor'."

Sherlock continued to stared "the Doctor" down, but he didn't squirm. Not that Sherlock expected him to; however old this man—_alien _truly was, surely a consulting detective wasn't the most intimidating thing he'd ever encountered.

"I need to check on John," he said curtly. Then he brushed by the Doctor and proceeded to pull off his gloves.

"John!" he shouted down the hall. As he came up to the center room, where John sat catatonic next to Amy, his stride slowed to a halt.

The room was…magnificent.

"You should see the outside of her," the Doctor chuckled quietly beside the gobsmacked detective. It sounded like another inside joke.

Sherlock turned to face him.

"You said yourself you didn't bring us here."

"No—"

"Then who did?"

Silence.

"Light."

Every eye turned to John, who, it seemed, was more coherent now as he rubbed his forehead. He sat on the steps of the center room, whispering things to himself.

"What was that?" the Doctor asked, stepping forward.

"I said, it was light. Everywhere, surrounding me. Then I was here—no. First, I was in a dark room with machinery, tied down." John swallowed harshly, struggling to remain calm as he remembered. "…Then the golden light came again and I was here."

Sherlock began to pace back and forth.

"This is reality. The room proves it. That must have been where they were keeping our bodies."

John looked up. "What are you talking about?"

The detective sighed, aggravated. "Doesn't this seem _different_, John? More…real?"

John remained quiet while it sank in.

"Sherlock…are you telling me that for who know how long, I've been strapped down in that room, _dreaming _of life?"

For a moment, Sherlock only looked at John. Then, slowly, he nodded.

John heaved for breath. "But—Harry?" Sherlock shook his head. "Lestrade?" Another shake. "Donna?!"

The Doctor's ears perked up, but then he dismissed the thought. _It couldn't be my Donna_, he thought. _Millions of Donnas._

Sherlock shrugged. "I never met Donna. There was a determining factor. We were all being followed by a sort of invisible…shadow creature." The Doctor began to pace, as well. Amy looked horrified.

"And you didn't TELL ME?!" John was livid.

"If I'd have told you, your life would have been in danger!" Sherlock roared back. "God knows what happened to Ro—" He choked as it hit him. Why hadn't he thought of it before? Why didn't he ask? Where was she? Did she—

Sherlock's thoughts were interrupted by a dry sob. He turned to John.

"Are you telling me _Rose_ was real…and she's still in there?"

The Doctor froze. _Rose? Donna? It can't be…but…the light?_ The Doctor felt both his hearts seizing. _Rose. Golden light. Amy comes back to me. Rose's friends are sent to safety…_

"Rassilon." No one heard the quiet whisper; instead Sherlock and John continued fighting.

"I tried to run with her. I tried to…I don't know where she is, John."

"You left my girlfriend to die?"

That took the Doctor off guard. Like the a-thousand-knives-sent-through-his-chest kind of off guard.

"She isn't dead, John. I don't think they would have done that. If they'd wanted us dead, they would have killed us. Instead, they—whoever _they _are—kidnapped us and trapped us in a false reality. They don't want us dead and they don't want her dead, either." What Sherlock didn't add was that the alternative could be worse than death…Mind torture? Wiping memories clean? They obviously had the power to do either…

After a moment, John began to quietly cry. Amy took his hand, not entirely certain of whom he was mourning, but empathetic as she thought of Rory.

Sherlock slid to the floor against the wall. The Doctor stared into space.

"What can we do?" Amy choked out.

"I'm not sure," the Doctor murmured. "But we'll save her. We'll save Rose."

**Thanks all for your follows, favs, and reviews! Keep it up! I do a little happy dance whenever I see them, especially reviews. :)**

**Abrazos!**


	9. Get Real

**Yes, yes, I know. It's a crime. I've been gone nearly half a month. I've realized a steady update schedule is not in my future. From this point forward, however, I do promise I'll update at the very least twice a month. **

**This is another chapter I am proud of and I hope you like it, too. :)**

**~Y.**

* * *

Rose's eyes fluttered open to pitch black darkness. Her head was killing her as if a red-hot poker had been screwed into her eye and a train had rolled over her skull.

She couldn't see anything. She felt groggy, like she would if she'd slept in too long on a Saturday. That, and the air was thick. Humid. Rose felt like she could hardly breathe. Sweat was over every inch of her body.

She tried to get up, but two things happened: Firstly, and most frightening, she discovered she was bound by something hard around her limbs. Secondly, painful shivers rolled down her bare back and her body stiffened at the sensation. _Heat rash_, she thought. _How long have I been here?_

Slowly, other things became apparent to her. Her eyes began to adjust to the darkness and they were met by blinking green lights about twenty feet ahead of her, if she tilted her head up just right. The lights climbed the wall all the way up until her eyes couldn't cut through the darkness anymore. Whatever sort of room she was in, she figured it had to be mostly underground; someone would have noticed a skyscraper with no windows or an empty middle.

There was also a ringing in her ears—tinnitus. Her ears were sensitive, overly aware. Her breathing sounded like a huffing windstorm, but she knew she was barely taking in air at all.

Rose also realized she wasn't wearing any clothing. Her back was flush against something hard and warm (plastic more likely than metal, because metal would have scorched like fire in the heat) and her thighs were sticking together from the sweat. In all, she felt miserable.

Another thing became apparent to her, as well. Her throat. It was…well, it had something uncomfortable shoved into it. Her gag reflex, however, seemed to have been deactivated. As if you could deactivate a gag reflex…? She didn't know. She'd heard of some pretty crazy things at Torchwood, but never of alien technology that could hack specific human—

_TORCHWOOD._

Torchwood. Aliens. The Doctor. The TARDIS. The parallel universe.

It all came crashing down on her in a single instant and she felt her heart rate pick up. She would have gasped, but instead the reflex only succeeded in driving the foreign object down her throat further. She wondered how she was even breathing.

Then, there were noises across the room. In the dim green glow of what she assumed were servers, she made out the outline of a door with a keypad.

Over the high-pitched ringing in her ears, she heard the boots, the murmur of talking. Then, a few bleeps outside the door. _That was the keypad,_ she thought. _They're coming in._

Quickly, she shut her eyes and did her best to regain control of her heart rate. Surely they were monitoring that sort of thing, but if she got it back down now they might think she was just having a nightmare.

_A nightmare…_ That's when it really sunk it. _This is reality. All that…all that was just…_

The sound of boots entering the room interrupted her thoughts. She tried to count the men, but for all she knew these were aliens with twelve legs each. If humanoid, however, she guesstimated five men. Soldiers, if the beat of their march was anything to go by.

The light streaming through the door burned her retinas even through her eyelids and she fought with herself not to wince.

She heard a deep chuckle. The volume of every sound was jarring and she almost jumped at the noise.

"Please, Ms. Tyler, stop pretending. We woke you up, now you do as we say. _Open your eyes._"

She tried to obey (mostly to see who would speak to her with such disrespect) but the light burned her eyes and she couldn't help the gargled yelp that escaped her.

The men laughed and the owner of the first voice (evidently the leader of this group) yanked the object out of her throat. It hurt. Like. Hell.

"Agh!" she screamed, the sound of her own voice so loud it was deafening to her ears.

Through barely-slit eyelids, she recognized the object as a type of Ulareen respiratory machine, meant to keep comatose patients breathing properly.

Before she could ask any questions, object to their treatment of her, or even make a snide remark, she felt the restraints unclicking and opening. _This is my chance_, she thought with resolve.

Rose swung her arm out blindly in the general direction of the voice. But she was met only with laughter and empty air.

Her arm was practically dead weight being _literally _swung rather than forcefully discharged. She realized it must have been months or longer that she had been trapped; she had muscular dystrophy.

Rose's nude body tumbled onto the floor.

"Get up," the voice ordered.

She could see his boots from where she lay crumpled. If she had been in proper health, she would have been able to kick his ass in three seconds flat, even from this position. Yet, at this very moment, she found she didn't even have strength enough to stand. She'd bruised herself falling and it actually took a great deal of resolve not to whimper.

The voice snorted.

"Fine. We'll have to drag her," he said to the others.

Two hands roughly grabbed under her arms. Rose didn't have the strength to protest.

They dragged her across the smooth linoleum to the open door and she threw her head down, to let her blonde locks help shield her eyes.

Pulling Rose over the threshold of the door, they continued to drag her. The light was white, painfully bright—at least to her eyes. The ceiling was low. The hallways were narrow and labyrinth-like. She couldn't have remembered the route they took her if she'd been scrawling it on paper. She was too disoriented to really recognize what specifically they were saying, aside from some lewd remarks regarding her state of undress and offensive complaints about her weight.

Her knees were bruised by now and even with the smoothness of the floor, they had been rubbed raw. For all she knew, she was leaving a trail of blood behind her as they dragged her body through the facility.

Abruptly, they stopped. Her head lolled forward. She couldn't keep it upright anymore.

"In there," the man ordered, but Rose felt so lightheaded, his voice now sounded muffled, underwater. She struggled to remain conscious, but her stomach was turning and her body was trying to decide if it wanted to throw up or pass out.

With a jerk, the two hands heaved her through an open door and her body crashed onto the hard floor.

Rose groaned, struggled to look up through the veil of greasy blonde hair.

It was a simple room. Two chairs across from each other separated by a table. One door behind her, one across the room from her. A huge mirror facing the table (_Two-way, _she thought grimly). And a second table in the corner...displaying numerous tools, Earth and alien in origin.

Rose's eyes widened.

"No," she choked out weakly.

This was an interrogation room.

* * *

**Ahhh! I know, I know. This is just cruelty. Poor Rose always gets the worst of everything, but that's what makes her such a lovable heroine: her endurance. **

**I am not sure how graphic I intend to get in the next several chapters, but I have a thing for making my readers squirm, so I'm considering changing the rating to an M. But we'll see.**

**Anyway, I really want to thank all the people who reviewed, fav'ed, and followed. I really appreciate it. I squeal like a little girl every time I see a new review and when I read one that says this is the reviewer's favorite fanfic ever, I get the urge to give out virtual hugs.**

**Hugs! Virtual hugs for everyone!**

**I'm done with the cheesiness now. Just thanks. Sincerely; I mean it.**


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